Saturday 3/24/2007 11:33:00 PM

The daffodil was talking with the lion. Under a putty sky that the daffodil thought looked like an abortion. A chaffed womb. A vacuumed fetus. But the lion insisted it more resembled addiction. In all the ways it was always us. In the tits our mothers fed us with. In the diapers that caught our feces. In every instance of naked. The humble sparrow. The coquettish wren. Barely flexing the muscles of the tree. As patiently they watch. The leaves returning.

The winter applying its mascara. Lids fluttering furiously amongst the black. Not to see better, but to be better seen. By whatever deity counts the feathers on these useless wings.

The daffodil and the lion didn't mind the way their conversation lulled into madness. She expected it. The lion did. Knowing the kill so well.

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